Countdown
by shimmeryshine
Summary: It's cliché, he knows, that this happens on New Years Eve. He's having a party, she comes, and the writer inside of him dies a little bit over the fact that fate has chosen this moment for them.


It's cliché, he knows, that this happens on New Years Eve. He's having a party (of course he is), she comes (of course she does), and the writer inside of him dies a little bit over the fact that fate has chosen this moment for them. (Fate or whichever attendant at Nordstrom helped her pick out that _dress_, surely she had some part in this.)

He's not a complainer though, Richard Castle. At least not about the things that count.

**9:34pm**

When she arrives at his door, fashionably late and arm in arm with a dazzling medical examiner, Castle has more than a little trouble keeping his eyes off of her. Even with her coat on, his gaze can follow the asymmetrical neckline of her dress, sparkling dark grey against the generous swell of her chest. As she removes her outerwear, handing it to an attendant near the door with a polite nod, he watches her hair tumble downward, glossy curls bouncing against her bare shoulders. It's his favorite way she wears her hair, and he's already itching to put his hands in it, if only he can ply her enough to let him.

On impulse, he decides to let her come to him, let her get her bearings in the throng of people surrounding them before he takes up his usual post at her side. It'll be hard enough leaving her alone once he speaks to her, he knows, so he might as well eek out as much extraneous social interaction as he can before she stakes her claim on him, as she always does. The rest of the party fails to hold interest once he knows she's there though, and he finds himself barely paying attention to anything but the shine of her dress as she picks her way through the crowd and to the bar.

She's just ordering a drink when he finally abandons his plan of letting her find him, and instead moves to her side, letting his hand skim her lower back in welcome. It's a presumptive touch to begin with, putting his hands on her at _all _without her express permission, but he's already had a drink or two, and she's been on the welcoming side of tactile lately so he takes a risk. He almost squeaks though, when instead of the scaly texture of tiny sequins, the fingers of his right hand come in contact with _bare skin_. The feeling is apparently as unexpected for her as well, because the breath they both release is a shared, shaky thing that makes the bartender squint his eyes suspiciously in their direction.

"_Beckett_, is there a hole in your dress?" he breathes at her, eyes wide, completely ignoring the now amused look of the bartender. Beckett gives him her best "sorry for my socially stunted partner" look and drags him away from the table.

Instead of explaining, she does a half turn, exposing her back to him quickly, revealing an almond shaped cut out along the small of her back. It's completely intentional and completely _maddening_, and he can't help the way his hands shoot out to her hips to still her when she makes a move to turn back around. "_Castle_," she hisses as his hands flank her, and then he feels her shiver a little bit as the pad of one of his thumbs brushes along the edge of the dress, skimming across skin again. She's so soft and smooth and accessible that he can hardly stand it.

When his eyes finally trail their way back up her body and to her face, she looks slightly murderous and he abruptly drops his hands. "Are you done manhandling me?" she asks as she takes a large sip of her drink.

"Sorry," he chokes out, giving her a sheepish look. He counts himself lucky not to have any newly broken fingers. His mouth is suddenly dry. "Where did you buy this?"

"Why? Do you want one?" she asks, trying to hide a smirk behind her glass. He totally sees it though, sees the flicker of triumph in her eyes, and it makes him stand up a little straighter. Kate Beckett does _nothing_ without thinking it through beforehand, and this is _exactly _the kind of reaction she was trying to coax from him, no matter what she is saying. He steps a little closer, watching her swallow tightly.

"Only if it comes with you inside of it," he winks, making her roll her eyes, but there's a definite blush curling it's way across her collar bones and he watches it as the countdown clock on the wall signals two hours until midnight.

**10:39pm**

Ryan, Esposito and Beckett are doing shots at his kitchen counter and he can't take his eyes off the way her throat contracts as she swallows. She sucks a lime wedge into her mouth and grins at him around it, wiping salt onto his shirtsleeve. It shouldn't be this…_arousing_ to watch her do shots with two other men, but they both have eyes for other women and she only has eyes for him.

"Come on Castle, I thought you were a party playboy," she teases him, nudging a full shot glass across the counter in his direction. He catches her hand before she can pull it away, raising it up to his face. She's still got tiny flecks of salt stuck along her finger, and he slides it into his mouth before she realizes what he's doing, letting his teeth scrape it lightly as his tongue collects what he needs. She's gaping at him as he releases her wrist, reaching for his shot glass and knocking it back with a purse of his lips, tequila burning its way down his esophagus. Her half eaten lime is the only one left, so he picks it up off the table and presses it between his teeth, acutely aware that only moments ago she had been holding it the same way_ in her mouth. _He thinks he can taste her on it, taste the alcohol and coffee and _Beckett _as the tart juice hits his tongue with a burst. His eyes water a little bit at the sensation, and hers lose focus, staring at his mouth instead of anywhere else.

He hopes this is only the first taste of her he will have before the New Year rings in.

**11:23pm**

"So...got a hot date for midnight, detective?"

Beckett quirks her brow at him holding eye contact as she slides her hand onto Lanie's bare knee next to her. "Lanie and I thought we'd keep it girls only this year," she whispers conspiratorially with a sparkle in her eye. Lanie plays along, throwing an arm around her friend's shoulder.

Castle and Esposito nearly choke on their own saliva in unison, and Esposito looks like he half wants to let Beckett have his girl, if only to see if they'll actually do it. Beckett's rolling her eyes at the both of them before either regains the ability to speak.

"Men," Lanie says, shaking her head and giving Esposito a little smack to slap him back to reality. She gets up to procure a refill before it gets too close to midnight and Castle and Beckett find themselves alone.

"I could help you find another hot woman," he says, trying not to sound overly interested.

"Maybe I've already got my eye on someone." She's too casual, stirring her drink with an absent shrug, moving her eyes through the crowd as if the person she's had her eye on all night isn't sitting right beside her.

"Well," he starts, puffing up his chest, making her smile out of the corner of her mouth. Oh these games they play. "You know I'll take that bullet if you need me too." He says it all put-out like, but the sound of the word_ bullet_ hangs between them.

"I know you would," she says softly, serious for a moment before she breaks eye contact. She stands abruptly after that, putting her drink down and scanning the room before finally looking back down at him. "Can I use your bathroom?" she asks, gesturing in the direction of his bedroom. The one upstairs has a line, and he likes the thought of her existing in his space more than he can say.

He nods sweeping a hand toward his room. "Of course, VIPs only." He winks and she shakes her head at him, backing her way through the crowd.

"Come find me at midnight," she says quickly, letting out a breath he hadn't known she'd been holding before she spins on her heel and saunters off in the direction of his bedroom and his bed and _oh_ he needs to find a distraction because there are still twenty minutes until midnight and he can't be thinking about her like this when he hasn't even kissed her yet.

**11:55pm**

It's five minutes to midnight and he is one hundred percent sure she has not emerged from his bedroom yet. His palms itch with the impulse to go find her, and with five minutes left, he finally feels justified in doing so. He's never felt like an intruder in his own bedroom before, but as he slowly walks his way in, eyes on the alert for her, he's anxious for what he might find within. She's not there though, not poking around in his bedside table like he thought she might be (though he doesn't expect that he would ever actually _catch _her doing that if she were to do it at all), and certainly not perched on his bed, waiting for him. The light is still shining under the crack in his bathroom door though, and just as he contemplates whether to knock or not, the light goes off and she comes walking out, almost running right into him.

"Jeeze," she says, flinching back from him. "Way to be creepy, Castle."

He gives her a sheepish look in the darkness, but neither of them moves toward the door. "It's almost midnight," he finally says softly, watching her.

She nods. "I know."

They stare at each other for an endless string of seconds, and he almost expects a rousing chorus of _ten-nine-eight _to start up to propel them to this moment they're about to have. He suspects they're about two minutes early though, and two minutes is an eternity when you're stuck staring into the endless depths of someone else's eyes.

She finally breaks their silence. "Castle."

He never thought his chosen surname would feel so personal, so genuine as it does when it's coming out of her mouth. He hums in response, waiting for her.

"Will you kiss me already?"

They don't need a cheesy holiday or a countdown or an _excuse_ for this anymore, so the second the words are out of her mouth, he's got his arms around her back and hers circle around his neck, lips crashing together with a kind of desperation he's never experienced in his _life_. Everything feels like that with her, like it's new, bigger, real. _Important_. He lived a life of frivolity and meaningless moments before he met her, and with her here under his hands and his mouth he feels like he's never been so sure about anything. She groans into his kiss, lighting him on fire as he starts to walk her backward, needing a solid surface to press her against for the sole purpose of remaining standing.

Her back hits the wall with a thump as one of her legs falls to the side just far enough to accommodate the knee he has pressing in between hers, and they both still as they hear a countdown begin in the living room. Her hands come up to frame his face as he watches her in the darkness, drunk on awareness and her proximity. She kisses him hotly at the stroke of midnight, and he's not sure if she's trying to prove something or give him some kind of sign about what kind of year she wants 2012 to be for them, but whatever it is, it tastes amazing.

As the choruses of "Happy New Year!" fade away, Castle pulls back to watch her face as he deliberately drags his thigh against her, the slow friction making her throat bob enticingly. He wants to put his mouth on it, so he _does_, tasting the sound that comes bubbling up at the hot press of muscle under the skirt of her dress. She's being maddeningly responsive, letting him touch her absolutely everywhere, mouth dripping with sounds he couldn't have even dreamed up in his filthiest fantasies. They're hiding in a dark corner of his bedroom, fully dressed and he's positive he's never been so turned on in his entire life.

Encouraged enough by her response to push his luck, Castle slides his hand around the side of her dress, questing for the gap in the back that started all of this. That flash of bare skin screaming _put your hands on me_. He wants to ask her if this was all planned, if she bought this dress for this purpose alone, because it feels like exactly her kind of invitation. Just suggestive enough to entice him, but not so overt as to categorically be called The First Move. Just her style.

She's groaning again, blunt nails digging into the skin at the back of his neck as she rocks forward against his thigh, back arching when he brushes the bare skin along the bottom of her spine.

"God," he breathes into the hair behind her ear, making her bite her lip against his cheek. She's trying to edit her reactions to him and failing miserably, body positively vibrating with her arousal.

When she doesn't push his wandering hands away, he eventually trails one along the front of her, sliding along the fabric just under her breasts and then down her stomach until he's hitching up them hem of her dress, fingers splaying possessively on her naked thigh. His mouth captures hers again, lips pressing, tongue sliding hotly with her impatience when her hand darts out to grasp his wrist. He opens his eyes then, forehead leaning into hers, her blown pupils staring him down with an expression he can't quite read. She could stop him or _not stop him_, either way he holds his breath for her decision.

Lust wins out, or love or whatever this thing is between them that she's been trying so hard to fight for so long, but the weeks since they'd been cuffed together, since the tiger, have changed her. She's got gaps in the spaces that were always closed up so tight and she's letting him _through them_. In lieu of pulling his wandering hand off of her, she grips his wrist a little tighter in her grasp, moving it the rest of the way up her dress, putting him where she wants him. His thigh drops a little bit to accommodate his fingers, and then she's holding on as he slides his open palm completely down the front of her, half lidded eyes holding his as she bites her lip in an effort to be quiet.

He can't stop staring at her as his wrist flexes, fingers feeling the wet hot evidence of just what he's doing to her. She's holding his wrist as he touches her, fingers playing at his muscles while he does things to her he's only daydreamed about. Extensively.

Just as his rhythm starts to pick up speed and sureness, a loud thump from somewhere not far outside his office doorway startles him into stopping. Instead of stepping away from her, Castle pushes closer, shielding her in case a wandering party guest has decided to snoop around and ruin their _private _party. He feels her tense under him, holding her breath against the threat of being caught outright by one of their mutual friends, someone who will never let them live this down, but no one comes and they are left panting against each other and alone.

"We shouldn't…" she starts to say, sucking in a gasp as he drags his fingers back across her. The way her eyes glaze over, immediately losing focus makes him giddy. She's the master of suggestive manipulation, but apparently not so immune to his charms as she likes to pretend she is.

"Just let me – "

"Castle the door's not even closed."

"How close are you?" he breathes into her ear, ignoring the sense she's trying to make.

She all but strangles out a _what_? before his fingers draw out just how on edge she really is, making her smack the back of her head against the wall in the middle of a violent arch of her hips. He swallows down the groan that spills from her mouth, his own lips curling into a smug grin.

It's only ten minutes past midnight, and 2012 is already his favorite year _ever_.


End file.
